Elizabeth Sheybad and the Flirting Dress

Elizabeth Sheybad wrestled with a terrible conflict of loyalties and personal desire as she walked through the amber sandstone corridors of her father’s Carpathian fortress. The auburn trestled beauty had just returned from Dr. Sheybad’s dungeon. She had ventured to those ancient caverns to ensure that their servants had successfully secured all of her father’s test subjects. Dr. Sheybad, the Linnaeam trained naturalist and warlock, had been experimenting with techniques for grafting demonic flesh onto live human subjects. The anguished cries of her father’s proto-super soldiers usually guided her to sleep during her afternoon naps, and much sport was typically made of matching Sheybad’s creation against each other in the courtyard. But such pleasantries would not do tonight, for tonight the Sheybads where hosting the Germanic Institute of Heredity and Trans-Pacific Genetic Society’s annual joint conference on Eugenics. Despite numerous brilliant advances in demonic skin grafts, the world was not yet ready for all of her father’s work.

Elizabeth was not ready for what she saw in the dungeon. Among the beautiful abominations crafted by her father was a new batch of test subjects just carried in by her father’s Magyar henchmen. Among those beaten and terrified peasants was none other than Johnny Walkingwolf. Walkingwolf was the native american gunfighter who typically fought along side Elizabeth’s true love: the demon hunter Yoshi Mifune.

If Walkingwolf was in her dungeon than Mifune could not be far behind. What’s worse, if anything were to happen to Walkingwolf, it would break her paramours heart and perhaps separate the star cross lovers permanently. But would could she do? The demon surgeons would be summoned tonight to carry out her father’s terrible instructions in the soundproof dungeon while she entertained Europe and Japan’s greatest minds in the ballroom. Her father would brook no disloyalty and accept no sign of weakness from his only daughter. She could not be found absent.

If only she could get a message to Mifune. But where was he? She had lost track of him after he finally cornered that rouge fire geist aboard the american battleship Maine that had been docked in Cuba. He must be near by but how to message him without alerting her father to her disloyalty.

Visibly distressed by this Elizabeth climbed out of the long staircase into the crisp mountain air of the fortress's courtyard. There, sitting as casually as a cat, was Mifune’s steam powered Ornithopter. Elizabeth gasped as her darling Yoshi stood but fifty yards away. He was incognito with a cluster of Japanese scientists bowing politely to the imposing figure of her father. Her father nodded to the men and led them into the hall. Dr. Sheybad spared one angry glance for his daughter which said “Hurry up child”. Mifune laughed rakishly at some slight comment, before sparing her a playful glance. Elizabeth knew Yoshi too well, and that flippant expression told her everything….YOSHI HAD NO IDEA WALKINGWOLF WAS HERE.

But how to get him a message. Elizabeth suddenly recalled a bit gypsy magic she had acquired last summer. Elizabeth sprinted up to her dressing room holding her skirts high above her kit heeled boots.

Elizabeth burst into her dressing room and turned the gas lamps up to full burn before hurling off her dress. “Get me that high necked gypsy gown, the one I call the flirting dress!” she screamed at one maid. To her secretary Elizabeth demanded that she take a letter as she kicked off her knickers. “Get the henna brush, and write this down on my posterior in dark ink!”

“Madam?!” said the confused secretary.

“On my bloody ass, I want you write this letter on my ass!”

“But why madam?”

“Because it is the only place I am sure he will look!”

The other maid entered with the flirting dress as the secretary knelt behind her mistress.

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I have been told many times that the citadel is an Rpg site, not a fiction site. And that RPG fiction should end right before or right after something really awful or dramatic happens, that way the players can pick up where the author left off, so we continue this in a forum RPG, or write me another weird item and I will try an incorporate into another thread of this narrative.

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While traveling trough farm land the PCs come upon a merchant sitting on a wrecked wagon without a mule attached to it, hid face burrowed in his hands. He explains that he was robbed by petty goblins, unable to defend himself he had retreated. He asks the PCs to help him retrieve the mule before the goblins roast it, as a reward they may keep his goods. How hard can it be?